


Dreamcatcher

by LeapAngstily



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Cliché A Week 2021, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, everyone can see it, except them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-15 05:00:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29928279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeapAngstily/pseuds/LeapAngstily
Summary: a.k.a. "5 times people thought Riccardo and Giorgio were dating + 1 time they actually were"
Relationships: Giorgio Chiellini/Riccardo Montolivo
Comments: 4
Kudos: 5





	Dreamcatcher

**Author's Note:**

> I've said it before and I'll say it again, Chiello/Monto is the only ship in the world that tunes my brain straight to fluff. No, I don't get it either.
> 
> Written for the 9th week of the [Cliché A Week 2021](https://montocalypse.tumblr.com/post/644454860086034432/week-9-everyone-knows-theyre-dating-except) challenge, for one of my favourite tropes in existence, _Everyone knows they're dating (except them)_.

_1._

Junior training camps are among Giampaolo’s favourite ways to spend school holidays because they always bring together the region’s most promising talents, giving him a chance to meet and study his potential future teammates and opponents alike.

Unlike many of his peers, he is not there to make friends. With a dad and a much older brother both prolific footballers in their prime, he decided early on he would become the best of the bunch, aiming not only for top league football but also the national team. And to reach that goal, he needs to scout the competition.

“Hey Pazzo, have you seen Riccardo? He promised to help me with my English essay.”

Speaking of rivals, Chiellini – who already plays for the Livorno first team at 15 years of age – is peeking into the room that Giampaolo shares with the Atalanta central mid, Montolivo.

“How should I know? I barely know the guy,” he tells the other left back, looking up from his GameBoy. Given, Montolivo _did_ tell him he would be downstairs playing pool with Nocerino when they left the dinner table, but why should he volunteer such information to direct competition?

Chiellini’s shoulders slump and he runs a hand through his short, dark hair. He sounds absolutely crestfallen when he says, “Yeah, why would you. I guess he must’ve forgotten… Sorry for bothering you.”

“Why’d you even need his help? Aren’t you, like, a year above him?” Giampaolo finds himself asking before Chiellini has a chance to close the door behind him.

“Huh?” the boy turns around, but then responds before Giampaolo has a chance to repeat the question. “Yeah, but he’s really good at English. Must be because he’s bilingual, makes it easier to learn additional languages.” He smiles sheepishly, a soft blush rising on his cheeks.

Montolivo is bilingual? Maybe Giampaolo should listen to his roommate more closely if he has missed such an interesting bit of information. Or maybe he just hasn’t told him yet, they are not friends, after all.

Chiellini is fidgeting in the doorway, obviously unsure whether he should go or keep the conversation going.

Giampaolo suddenly feels sorry for the guy, because Montolivo is one of the kids on the camp who seems to be making friends left, right and centre, while Chiellini has always seemed more standoffish. It is no surprise Montolivo would forget a promise when he always has a bunch of boys asking for him.

“I think Nocerino challenged him to a pool match at dinner. Maybe he’s still down there?”

Chiellini’s frown melts into a relieved smile. “Thanks, Pazzo! I owe you one.”

There is a soft thud as he disappears and closes the door behind him, leaving Giampaolo alone with his game.

He finds himself hoping Montolivo will honour his promise, because Chiellini seemed to be really looking forward to it. God knows why anyone would look forward to doing homework during holidays, but to each their own.

An hour later, when Giampaolo comes down to get himself a Pepsi from the vending machine, the first thing he sees are Chiellini and Montolivo who have huddled on a couch in the corner of the common room, an English textbook, two dictionaries, and a handful of papers spread across the table in front of them.

Montolivo has taken Chiellini’s pencil and is crossing out something on the paper that must be the infamous essay, talking all the while as he starts scribbling a new line to fix whatever mistake the older boy had made.

It is Chiellini’s face that gives Giampaolo a pause, though. He is not looking at the paper, he is staring at Montolivo’s face with an expression that Giampaolo can only call _dumbstruck_ _adoration_.

Ah, so that’s why…

Giampaolo gets his Pepsi and is ready to go back to his room when Montolivo pokes Chiellini’s arm with the pencil and snaps, “Are you even listening to me, Giorgio?”

This is interesting in two aspects. First off, Montolivo is likely the only person in the camp to call Chiellini by his first name. Secondly, the bright smile on the younger boy’s face is enough to light up the whole room, and against all odds, it makes Giampaolo want to pay more attention, too.

So, instead of going back to his room like he had planned, Giampaolo opens his Pepsi can and walks over to the two boys who are now play-arguing over Chiellini’s lack of focus.

“Seems like you found him,” he comments as he plops down on an armchair across from them and takes a sip of his drink.

Neither boy seems to have noticed him approaching, because they immediately startle out of their argument, cheeks flushed, and Montolivo even shifts in his seat, putting just a hand’s width of distance between them.

“Ah, don’t let me interrupt. I’m just gonna enjoy my Pepsi and then I’ll leave you to your… essay,” Giampaolo says, looking pointedly between the two with a knowing smile. “Good for you, _Giorgio_.”

Chiellini seems to choke on his own spit and the soft blush on his face is quickly taking a brighter hue. Montolivo actually laughs and pinches his cheek, whispering just loud enough that Giampaolo hears it too, “You look like a tomato, Giorgio.”

“Not you too,” Chiellini whines, prompting another airy laugh from the youngest of the three.

As he teams up with Montolivo to tease poor Chiellini, Giampaolo realizes he really doesn’t mind making some friends on the way to football stardom. Especially considering he might be transferring to the Atalanta Academy for the next season.

_2._

“Hey, Luca, can you give me a ride to Milano?” Riccardo rushes down the stairs to catch his older brother who is getting ready to leave the house.

“Sure, if you’re ready to go in five,” Luca agrees, looking Riccardo up and down, taking in the attire he spent a better part of an hour choosing. A cheeky smile rises on his lips. “Why, do you have a hot date waiting for you, brat?”

“No!” Riccardo snaps, face heating up as he rushes to get his jacket and scarf, and to pull on his white sneakers he only wears for special occasions. “It’s just… Livorno is playing Monza tomorrow, and Giorgio asked if I wanted to grab dinner and a movie tonight since they’re staying in Milano.”

“I’m sure this Giorgio would feel absolutely devastated if he heard you don’t find him hot,” Luca teases and tries to ruffle Riccardo’s carefully styled hair.

Riccardo ducks away from the intruding hand and shoots his brother a withering glare. “No, he’s not my date, you idiot.”

“So, what you’re saying is, you _do_ find him hot?”

Riccardo hits him with his bag and opens his mouth to argue when their mother calls from the living room, “Who does Riccardo find hot?”

“No one!” Riccardo shouts back, but the answer is drowned by Luca’s even louder, “Ricky’s got another date with _Giorgio_. Do you need me to chaperone?”

Their mom appears in the doorway, a curious smile on her face. “I would love to meet this Giorgio of yours, dear. You should invite him over for dinner sometime.”

“Yeah, how long are you planning to hide your boyfriend from us?” Luca grins, poking Riccardo’s side.

Riccardo stomps on his foot and shoots another glare at him before fixing his expression to a more neutral one as he turns to face his mother, cheeks burning. “Mom, he lives in Livorno. It’s not like I can just ask him to come over whenever I feel like it.”

“You seem to be finding more than enough chances to meet up with him though…” Luca hisses to him, sounding awfully pleased with himself. Riccardo elbows him.

His mom walks over and fixes the collar of his black button-up shirt. “I know, honey. But do ask him – you’ve been talking about this boy for two years; your father and I have been wondering when you’re going to introduce us.”

“…Fine,” Riccardo agrees sullenly, because he knows it is the fastest way to get out of the conversation.

“That’s great. I hope you have a nice evening.” Antje wipes a strand of hair off his eyes and smiles at him, before turning to her eldest. “And Luca, stop teasing your baby brother. Aren’t you supposed to be the mature one?”

“Sorry mom,” Luca says, not an ounce of remorse in his voice. “C’mon brat, I’m already late for work.”

Riccardo is already dreading the ride to Milano as he follows his brother out of the house.

_3._

The Fiorentina squad flies to Milano on Saturday ahead of their Sunday fixture against Inter.

They arrive at the hotel on schedule and Giorgio sends Riccardo a text to check what time he will be in the city as they wait for the team manager to sort out the check-in and get them their key cards.

“Give Ricky a hug for me,” Giampaolo whispers into his ear, making Giorgio jump because he had not noticed his new teammate sneaking up on him.

Giorgio doesn’t even try to deny he is meeting up with Riccardo, because Giampaolo is Riccardo’s best friend and therefore must know it already. Instead, he forces a hopefully carefree smile on his face and extends an invitation, “You could always join us. We’re checking out a new sushi place Riccardo found the other week – I’m sure he’d love to catch up with you, too.”

“Nah, I’d much rather go see my girlfriend than third-wheel the two of you. Again.”

Giampaolo waggles his eyebrows suggestively, and Giorgio cannot tell if he is teasing him about Riccardo – it definitely wouldn’t be the first time – or just implying what his plans for the evening include. Either way, Giorgio can feel a blush spreading across his face.

“Third-wheeling whom?” Maggio asks as he joins them, handing Giorgio a key card to their shared room. “Does Chiello have a _date_?”

“Yup, they’re getting sushi with Ricky,” Giampaolo informs their teammate before Giorgio has a chance to get a word edgewise.

“Oh,” Christian’s eyebrows climb up to his hairline in surprise, but then he only gives Giorgio an encouraging smile and a thumbs-up. “Good for you, man! Monto’s a catch.”

“It’s not like that,” Giorgio mutters as he tries to will his blush to go down. He has been tolerating Giampaolo’s teasing for five years, it should be about time he learns to shrug it off. “We’re just friends, is all.”

“I get it, man. You gotta keep it quiet, lest the press get a whiff of it.” Christian claps his shoulder jovially. “Don’t worry, my lips are sealed. Just-- please go to his if you guys wanna continue the night. I need my beaty sleep.”

“I said it’s not like that!” Giorgio shouts after him as he heads towards the lifts. Giampaolo barks out a laugh and throws an arm around his shoulders. “The Nile isn’t just a river in Egypt, my dear Giorgio.”

“You’re right, it also flows through Sudan and Uganda,” Giorgio answers with a longsuffering sigh.

At least Riccardo will probably find the story hilarious when Giorgio has a chance to share it with him.

_4._

Cristina spots Riccardo at the mall, standing by a high table in the food court and looking absolutely gorgeous in his fitted jeans and grey cardigan, with his hair pulled back in a loose ponytail.

They met through a work event some months back and have gone out a few times with mutual friends since then, but Cristina has yet to get Riccardo alone long enough to figure out if the younger man is just nice to everyone or if the attraction is mutual.

“Hello Riccardo, what brings you here?” she greets as she walks over and joins him by the table.

“Hi, been a while, hasn’t it?” Riccardo returns the greeting with a bright smile and a kiss on the cheek. “Nothing much, just-- out with a friend. He’s visiting his family in Pisa, so we figured it was a good chance to meet up.”

His smile turns dreamy, and his voice is bubbling with warmth as he talks about his friend, and not for the first time Cristina wonders if he might be gay. She has never sought any confirmation one way or another, but she also recognizes her own tendency to get crushes on men who are unavailable to her.

“So, where is this friend of yours?” she asks, trying to keep her voice casual. “How dare he come all the way from Pisa and then leave you alone like this?”

Riccardo shakes his head quickly. “No, he’s just getting us something to eat. It’s so crowded here, we figured it was easier if I just grabbed us a table while he waits in the line.”

“Oh, a gentleman then?” Cristina comments with an airy laugh. With Riccardo’s smitten expression and the signs of everyday chivalry, it is really starting to sound like a date.

“He really is,” Riccardo agrees, looking over to the restaurants lining the space. “Ah, here he comes.”

Riccardo’s friend has a buzzcut, crooked nose, and warm brown eyes. He is taller than Riccardo, though not by much, and his shoulders are clearly broader under his black shirt. He looks familiar, probably another footballer if Cristina had to hazard a guess, but she cannot place him.

Cristina finds it adorable how Riccardo instinctively straightens his posture to match his companion’s height as he joins them, placing a tray of Chinese food on the table between them.

“Giorgio, this is Cristina,” Riccardo introduces, though his eyes linger on Cristina only for a second before his whole attention is back on the other man. Oh yes, definitely a date, then. What a disappointment. “Cristina, this is my friend Giorgio.”

Giorgio Chiellini, of course! He used to play for Fiorentina back in the day, before Riccardo joined the club.

“Lovely to meet you, Giorgio.” Cristina allows him to kiss her cheeks, but he quickly withdraws back to Riccardo’s side, standing so close their shoulders are touching.

“Likewise.” The man offers her a shy smile. “Would you like to eat something, maybe? I’m sure I bought enough for three.”

“Talk for yourself, I’m starving,” Riccardo grins and brushes an invisible piece of dirt off Giorgio’s shirt. “Guess you can’t help it, though – we were just talking with Cristina how you’re such a gentleman, braving those crowds for me.”

“Well, it was the only way to stop your whining about craving spring rolls,” Giorgio says in a low voice, a teasing smile tugging on the corners of his mouth. He tugs a loose strand of hair behind Riccardo’s ear casually, like he has done it a thousand times before.

Cristina’s disappointment about Riccardo’s unavailability is abating by the second, because she cannot remember the last time she saw a couple so clearly in love. How could she be anything but happy for them, after they managed to find a kindred soul in the unforgiving world of football.

“I should actually get going.” Never let it be said she cannot read the room. She knows when her company is not wanted. “It really was lovely meeting you, Giorgio. I hope you enjoy your time here.”

The couple are already engrossed in each other when Cristina glances over her shoulder just a couple steps out.

_5._

When Riccardo goes down in the match against Ireland, everyone waits for him to get back up and jog it off.

When he doesn’t, that’s when the panic starts to build.

Cesare wants nothing more than to rush to the pitch himself to see if the injury is as bad as Riccardo’s forlorn face indicates, but he has the rest of squad to worry about and a substitution to make.

He sends Aquilani to warm up even as the rest of the bench crowds the technical area, stretching their necks and some even doing what Cesare cannot, jogging over to ask Riccardo how bad it is.

_Broken,_ one of the team doctors mouths to Cesare when he gets close enough. Cesare isn’t the only one to catch it, if the shocked hush falling over the bench is anything to go by.

Chiellini looks like he is about to break something. Possibly the legs of the Irish player who fouled Riccardo. But underneath the visible anger, Cesare recognizes the worry he is trying to hide. Riccardo might be in tears – not nearly all of it because of the physical pain – but Cesare’s first-choice centre back isn’t far off either.

Cesare is not blind. He has coached Chiellini for four years on the national team, and Riccardo nearly ten through club and national squads, not to mention all the years he watched over his growth at the Academy.

He recalls a time when “Giorgio said…” and “Giorgio did…” and “I need to call Giorgio” became a part of Riccardo’s daily vocabulary, maybe at twelve years of age. He remembers all the times Chiellini came to pick Riccardo up from the team hotel when they were playing anywhere near Turin, and the way Riccardo kept disappearing after their clubs faced each other.

The two had arrived at the Coverciano training centre by the same car, even though they don’t even live in the same city. No one had questioned it though, lest of all Cesare who had watched them grow up joined at the hip.

Now he watches Chiellini visibly struggling to hold himself back as the medics carry Riccardo off the pitch and towards the waiting ambulance at the stadium doors.

“Gabriele,” he calls for his assistant, “could you please catch a cab and go to the hospital? Make sure he’ll get the best possible care.” He glances at the centre back who is now hiding his face against Buffon’s shoulder, having lost the battle against tears. “And take Chiellini with you.”

Chiellini’s head snaps up at the words, bloodshot eyes wide with surprise.

“Go on, boy, I wasn’t going to field you tonight anyways.” Cesare nods towards the dugout, forcing a reassuring smile on his lips even though he would like to do nothing more than rush to the hospital himself. “I’m sure Riccardo could use a shoulder to cry on right about now. Don’t keep him waiting.”

Chiellini’s expression steels at the mention of Riccardo, and he follows Gabriele out of the technical area with a soft, “Thanks, Mister.”

Cesare will never admit it to anyone – he is not allowed to play favourites, after all – but the only reason he manages to focus for the remaining 80 minutes of the match is the knowledge that Riccardo has his favourite person by his side.

_\+ 1._

They return to the team hotel only after dinnertime, once Riccardo has been adequately medicated and his leg has been x-rayed from all angles, bones aligned and booted up to wait for an operation he will have when he is back in Italy.

Giorgio follows him all the way to his room, opening doors and moving any obstacles out of the way. His large hand lingers on Riccardo’s arm whenever he is close enough to touch, even though Riccardo is familiar enough with the crutches not to need the extra support.

The attention is actually _really_ nice, even though Riccardo would never say it out loud, because he is a grown man who doesn’t need babying. Were it anyone else, he would probably tell them to back off, but with Giorgio it’s fine. Giorgio’s care has never made him feel weak.

His friend piles all the large pillows on the wide bed against the headboard and helps Riccardo sit up against them before he picks up a room service menu. “What do you want to eat?”

Just the thought of food makes Riccardo feel sick to his stomach. He is not sure if it’s the painkillers in his system or just the shock still affecting him. “Just pick something. I’m not really hungry.”

Giorgio shoots him a sceptical look. “Riccardo, you’re always hungry.”

That brings an unwitting smile to Riccardo’s lips. “Sorry, I really don’t feel like eating. I just wanna sleep.”

His friend lets out an audible sigh and picks up the phone, ordering what sounds like half the menu, before he walks over and sits on the edge of the bed. His hand lands on Riccardo’s good leg as he admonishes him, “You might not feel like it, but you really do need to eat. How else are you going to get healthy?”

Riccardo’s eyes linger on the hand on his thigh, the warmth of Giorgio’s palm seeping through the sweatpants. “I doubt eating will help me get healthy fast enough to make it on that plane to Brazil.”

Giorgio freezes, and Riccardo realizes he had been gently massaging his leg only when the comfort is gone.

“There are other tournaments,” Giorgio says quietly, not meeting Riccardo’s eyes.

“‘Other tournaments’ are not the World Cup,” Riccardo counters, and he feels tears burning his eyes again. How long does one need to cry before they run out of tears? He has a feeling he is going to find out tonight.

“There are other _World Cups_ ,” Giorgio insists, the hand on his leg moving up to rub his belly. Riccardo doesn’t bother reminding him that the chances of him making it into the World Cup squad four years from now are slim to none. He is no Pirlo. He is no Giorgio, either.

“I’m going to miss you,” he whispers instead, covering Giorgio’s hand with his own. “I had hoped-- a whole month, in Brazil, together. I really wanted to have that with you.”

“I’ll text you every day,” Giorgio tells him, no deceit in his voice. He turns his wrist until he can take Riccardo’s hand inside his larger one. “Hell, I’ll _call_ you every day, time zones and match schedules be damned. You’ll be with me every step of the way.”

_It won’t be the same. You’ll still be half the world away._

Riccardo doesn’t say it out loud, he only tugs on Giorgio’s hand and pulls it up to his lips. Giorgio freezes again, but this time his wide eyes don’t shy away from Riccardo’s. The earlier sadness in his eyes has been replaced by wonder.

“I’m high on painkillers,” Riccardo whispers against Giorgio’s knuckles as he trails his lips against them, giving them both a way out if Giorgio doesn’t feel the same.

“So you are,” his friend echoes, but doesn’t try to pull his hand away.

Riccardo smiles against the tanned skin, his chest aching with familiar longing, the one he has carried since he was fifteen and first realized why he kept trailing after Giorgio at the training camps.

His sight is blurring, but it is only when Giorgio uses his free hand to wipe a tear from his cheek that he realizes he must be crying again. He doesn’t even know why.

“Can you stay here, tonight?” he asks softly, pressing another kiss against the back of Giorgio’s hand. “At least until I fall asleep. I need you to be my dreamcatcher.”

Wow, he really is high as a kite if he is starting to wax poetic.

Giorgio pulls his hand out of Riccardo’s hold, and for a second Riccardo feels his heart breaking. Then he is cupping Riccardo’s face with both hands and leaning in, dark eyes boring into blue.

“I can be anything you ask me to be, Riccardo.”

An embarrassing choked sob is all the answer Riccardo is able to give before Giorgio closes the distance and brushes his lips against his. It is chaste, careful, and barely there, but for Riccardo it feels like his whole world is compressed into that one simple kiss.

A knock on the door breaks the magic.

“It’s the room service,” Giorgio mutters, his breath still dancing on Riccardo’s lips, “I should get that.”

“They’ll leave the trolley at the door if we just wait,” Riccardo argues, one hand snaking its way up to caress the back of Giorgio’s neck. He doesn’t want the moment to end. Not yet. Not when he has waited for so long.

Giorgio laughs softly and presses his forehead against Riccardo’s, thumb caressing his cheekbone. There is another knock on the door, louder this time. “I’m not sure that’s how it works.”

He makes no attempt to pull away.

The next knock is accompanied by a voice that is most definitely not the room service. “Chiello you shithead, stop making out with your boyfriend and open the fucking door!”

Giorgio snorts out a laugh and Riccardo is not far behind.

“You think he’s gonna leave if we act like we’re not here?” the centre back asks quietly, hoping the door is thick enough to keep Pirlo from hearing them.

Riccardo shakes his head, rubbing his nose against Giorgio’s. “You know Andrea. If we don’t let him in, he’s gonna steal the master key from reception and barge in anyways.”

Pirlo has moved to knocking some disjointed melody against the door.

“To be continued?” Giorgio asks, still speaking against Riccardo’s lips.

“Definitely,” Riccardo confirms and steals another kiss before letting his friend – _boyfriend_ , Pirlo said, and he is not called a genius for nothing – stand up and walk to the door to let their impatient teammates in.


End file.
